


for the ones who dream of stranger worlds

by citrus_ebooks



Category: Kamen Rider Ryuki
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-06-24 14:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19725502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrus_ebooks/pseuds/citrus_ebooks
Summary: fragments from the world in mirrors, scattered across timelinesaka ryuki short fic dumpprobably tezuka centric bc im in love with himnew!: tezuka and ren b kissin





	1. yuichi dyes his hair

“Are you _sure_ you want to do this?” Tezuka asks.

Standing behind Yuichi, he rubs the petroleum jelly onto his forehead, his temples, and finally the nape of his neck. Yuichi laughs, wiggling in his seat, which is an old wooden stool they dragged into his family’s bathroom.

They are _not_ in a hair salon, which Tezuka thinks would have a 99% chance of yielding better results.

“Ever the worrywart, Tezuka… But tell me… Do the cards say I’m going to go…”

Gulp.

“... Bald?”

“Firstly,” he emphasises his points with loud snap!s as he puts on a pair of rubber gloves, “it was the coins. And secondly, you’re not going to go bald, but we _are_ going to get in a lot of trouble for this.”

Silence, which Tezuka assumes is Yuichi thinking of what to say next. Water drips from the shower head, plink! plink! onto the tiled floor.

“Also, you’re not meant to wash your hair for at least a day before you dye it, you know. This is off to a grand start.”

“Now how did you figure that out...? I called you _after_ I dried my hair!”

And pause, for dramatic effect.

“...Would you believe me... if I said I had a vision of it?”

“Of course! Your predictions are always right, after all.” Yuichi speaks with a sincerity that is unbefitting of the situation entirely, like he’s trusting Tezuka with his whole life and they’re not just dumb kids making an impulse decision while Yuichi’s parents are out.

And Tezuka… Tezuka giggles.

“You’re not supposed to be happy when a guy tells you he’s watching you in the shower, Yuichi. And that was _very_ suave. I don’t think brown hair will make you any cooler than you already are.”

“But… I’m not smart, and I’m kind of average at everything else... Without my piano, I’m just plain old me.”

Yuichi seems to shrink a little.

”I wanna stand out sometimes, yanno? My talent isn’t _nearly_ as flashy as yours!”

Tezuka opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it wordlessly. They’ve had this argument before. He’s nothing special — to his visions he says ignorance is bliss, and the other things he does with coins and cards and matches are nothing more than party tricks. At least, compared to what Yuichi does. His hard work, the days they walked back home from school with the stars already up in the sky because Yuichi stayed back just to practice one more time — Tezuka admires him. Really.

How could Yuichi even be envious of Tezuka’s gift of sight when he was born with his own gift, too? Not many people had fingers that could coax songs out of simple ivory... or laughs that sounded like music. 

An exaggerated sigh, and a smile he feels safe making with Yuichi’s back facing him, too fond for the joking words that come next.

“You _know_ I think you’re perfect the way you are.”

But Tezuka gives in. “If you really want to do this though… What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t get in trouble with you?”

Yuichi turns to face him again, beaming.

“A much smarter one, probably!”


	2. cassandra truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tezuka is one specimen in a botched experiment and he comes very close to realising it

Tea Room Atori, a quaint cafe in the quieter part of Shinjuku. The outer walls are overgrown with ivy and sunlight spills through the windows, honey-gold warming the crisp autumn air. Tezuka washes teacups in the empty first floor kitchen. The water is warm, too. He lets the smooth ceramic contours guide his hands instead of fully focusing on his task, watching the dust illuminated by the sunlight float around.

This is timeline number three hundred and fifty-nine.

Tezuka feels these words in his head, steely and calculated, as sure as he knows his own name. Surer, even, than his hazy visions, showing just one path that the future could take. The water runs cold, numbing his fingers. His right hand gets clumsy, nearly fumbling the teacup and letting it fall to the bottom of the sink. But it wasn’t a vision. A single sentence wasn’t how it worked, usually.

Unlike his normal visions – foggy reflections dancing in tarnished silver – _this_ … this was more like a cold shard of glass lodged itself into his head. It was almost like his brain was itching, or like he had allowed himself to drop the cup and let it shatter, the sound of broken glass ringing in his ears. He resists the urge to claw at his scalp to get it out.

_This is timeline number three hundred and fifty-nine._

Not an answer to an open-ended question. It was pure, scientific, fact.

What could that possibly mean?

...

Days pass.

Tezuka could write a thesis with all the little discoveries, now a feeling he was accustomed to, like someone whispering shiny soap bubbles into one ear, popping in his brain before they can go out the other, and he can’t tell when they’ll come next. He’s invested in a pocket sized notebook, now half filled with quick scribbles — hyperplane, spacetime, relativity — physics jargon that he thinks is more likely to be found in a spellbook than a peer reviewed journal.

He does his best to look into it of course, stops by the nearby Nishi Ochiai Library when Akiyama can cover his shifts, borrows books he pours over while he’s not pouring tea. Because he doesn’t even understand what he’s writing sometimes. He recalls an old detective show he saw once: the sleuth demonstrates that when you write something on a notebook, even though you tear it out, it leaves an invisible impression that can be uncovered by rubbing a pen over it. 

That’s probably what he was doing.

Piles of books tower up beside his bed, grazing the ceiling, papers blow over the line dividing the room he shares with Akiyama in half and end up slightly crumpled on his side of the room again the next day. Scholarly articles on the subject — reflection, dimensions, electromagnetism — are years behind what he has written.

He flip-flip-flips through his spiral notebook. Less like a peer reviewed journal, more like a spellbook. The writings of a prophet, the voice of a god happening to catch on a mortal ear. Or, more likely, if one could even say that when dealing in this field, the ghost of a bright young physicist, gone before his time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did this w the idea of an “experiment” in mind... like shiro’s notes leaking in... into tezukas brain...? bc he gets prophecies and stuff so what if he was susceptible to that... yeah. but im not claiming this as canon compliant or anything. its an au yeah
> 
> got bored tho maybe ill pick it up again


	3. do you ever yearn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tezuka and ren across timelines

Tezuka is waiting for him when he gets back. It’s a bit of a struggle to see him in the low light of the freshly turned night, but sure enough, he’s there. Leaning against the outer wall of Atori’s garden. Smug.

“Lost another fight, Akiyama?”

Ren wipes away the blood on his cheek with the back of his fist, and keeps walking towards the door.

… 

They’ve settled into a routine of mutual cold shoulder – I don’t like you, you don’t like me – so it’s quiet. Miyuki sits on the bed that is now his since Shinji has kindly given it up for a futon on the floor and flips a coin over and over, his eyes following its arc and not really paying attention to how it falls. Not much to watch for, anyways. Miyuki already knows what lies in store for Ren. Destruction. Simple as that.

… 

He’s bandaging wounds again.

They aren’t very serious. Scrapes and bruises he gets picking fights in the street with common thugs can hardly compare to broken bones and ruptured organs they risk in the Mirror World. He fumbles around the first-aid box next to where he sits on the bed and rubs alcohol on his grazed cheek. Miyuki watches him go through the motions silently from across him.

If he had to guess, Ren’s efficient handling of his own injuries –– disinfect-ointment-bandage and onto the next like clockwork –– betrayed the turbulent past of a teenage rebel without a cause, angry at society and whose protests were mostly spoken with fists, a bad habit that Akiyama Ren, age 24, still hadn’t grown out of–

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t even said anything, Akiyama. Hearing things?”

Ren shuts the first-aid box with a huff and gets up, most likely to return it to its place in one of the cabinets near where they eat their breakfast before Yui realises it’s missing.

It’s little things like this, things that Ren thinks nobody will notice, that make Miyuki want to save him so bad.

…

“Tezuka!”

Their armor shatters as they step out of the mirror. Ren grabs his arm and nearly takes Miyuki’s arm out of its socket. He keeps on walking. The newly obtained deck is an odd weight to carry in his pocket.

“Answer me. What do you think you’re _doing_?”

...

“Don’t be stupid, Ren.”

Miyuki sucks in a shaky breath.

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

It’s a cool day in winter but the leaves creeping up the walls leading up to the window of Miyuki and Ren’s shared room still cling stubbornly to the dirty old bricks, red-faced with the effort it takes not to be blown away by the frosty winds. Miyuki and Ren are alone in their room, a common occurence on days where foot traffic is slow at the cafe below. When Miyuki gingerly pulls his lips from Ren’s, he can’t meet his eyes. Miyuki’s hands stay fisted in the soft collar of his turtleneck and he presses his head into Ren’s chest as if to prove Ren wrong, to feel for himself that, Ren really did have a heart beating in that rib cage of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT ME TRYING TO START THIS FIC 5 TIMES AND TRYING TO PASS IT OFF AS AN EXPERIMENTAL STYLEEE


End file.
